


Architecture

by seventhe



Series: precocious boy-kings and their shy trusted advisors [2]
Category: Final Fantasy III
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Kissing, M/M, Period-Typical Underage, aged up from canon, clumsy boy makeouts, precocious boy-kings, shy trusted advisors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-14
Updated: 2013-05-14
Packaged: 2017-12-11 19:46:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/802507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventhe/pseuds/seventhe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(+5 years from the game; sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/755412">Calligraphy</a>.) Arc finds new direction in Saronia, new understanding of himself, and new everything with Alus. (In which Arc builds a bridge, Alus hires an advisor, and Luneth, Refia, and Ingus write letters.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Architecture

**Author's Note:**

> This is a pretty direct sequel to [Calligraphy](http://archiveofourown.org/works/755412) \- I won't say it's required reading, and Calligraphy still stands on its own, but if you are an Arc/Alus fan like me you may as well read it anyway; it will help you with this one.
> 
> Ages are approximately canon+5.

The mornings in Saronia dawn warmer than Arc is used to; he makes the mistake of mentioning this to Alus at their second breakfast, and the lively discussion about whether the height of the Floating Island has affected its climate or if the power of the Crystals has buffered it somewhat spans the next three days and makes Alus gratefully late for no less than five budget meetings. (Arc will note over the weeks he spends in Saronia that the only part of being a king Alus is not interested in is the money: it isn't that he neglects the purse, because he spends as much time and effort carefully going through it as he does any other area of the regency, but he seems wholly uninspired by the process. Arc himself finds economics fascinating, but refrains from bringing it up because the mental image of being _immediately_ appointed Saronia's Chancellor of the Treasury seems a little too real. Besides, it's the ebb and flow of cost-and-demand that interests him, the theory behind finances: having to make actual decisions about just how much support they can afford to provide to farmers whose crops have withered would probably depress him too.)

Arc spends his first few days in Saronia following King Alus to nearly _everything_. He's surprised at how little complaint there is about the short, pasty shadow the King has acquired; somehow he expected at least one or two of the courtiers and chancellors and advisors to protest his presence. "You're still a Light Warrior, Arc," Alus tells him on the fourth day when he somewhat sheepishly asks; "you've every right to look in on any nation in the world after what you went through to save us all."

"I don't think that makes me," Arc begins, because he still feels more of a kid at twenty than Alus _is_ at fifteen-and-change, "…qualified."

"They all know who you are," Alus murmurs, "even if you don't," and he turns that look he has on Arc, the piercing one that makes Arc feel like Alus is looking directly into the back of his brain, the sharp intense kind that shatters all the excuses he doesn't realize he's making. But before he can reply at all another courtier has approached the King's elbow, and Arc is whisked away to observe yet another one of Alus' calm confident decisions.

He cannot yet put words to the immense complexity of things he feels watching Alus rule. It is something like pride, although he can take absolutely no credit for any of it – Alus is a product of what he has made himself – so an impersonal pride, then, an appreciation, and something like paying honor and respect to a friend who so obviously deserves it. Although some of it is a deep-seated personal satisfaction, knowing that this great amazing individual considers him a person worth writing to, worth listening to; Arc sees every day how much of a king Alus has become, and treasures even more that this friend took time out of his weeks and months to put pen to paper in his name.

After a week as the King's shadow, Arc feels like he has a vague understanding of the main issues facing Saronia and her king – he can at least outline them, anyway – and this is when Alus turns him loose into the Saronian Castle Archives.

Arc stops only a few steps through the door, because the hallway before him stretches away from him and it is filled with shelves that are full of _things._ This one room is larger than any house in Ur and it's full of _words on paper_ and he absolutely doesn't know what to do with himself.

He turns to Alus, who is standing there watching him, grinning, smug and fond and amused all in one, arms crossed and eyes bright as he waits for Arc to speak.

"I'm going to get lost," is the first thing he manages to say.

Alus chuckles. "Good think we started here, then, rather than in the Northeast Library. That's much larger, and it isn't nearly as well-organized. You'd have fits. I thought we could start small."

"Alus," Arc says, a faint note of panic in his voice, "I'm going to get lost and starve to death."

"I'll come get you," Alus promises, his smile curving upward.

"What am I," and he swallows, because he still isn't really sure he _deserves_ to be here – despite the gleam in Alus' eyes, despite the fact that his friend the King has been absolutely right about everything else he has done this week and therefore it should not be so far of a leap to think he is possibly also right about Arc's capabilities and worth and potential helpfulness. "Where should I start?"

Alus glances around the room. "Wherever you'd like," he says, and his hand comes up to lightly rest upon Arc's shoulder, which stops Arc's stammering protest. "Spending a week following me from meeting to conference to meeting to event wasn't just for your health or your amusement. These are real things that are going on, right now, that Saronia needs help with. Of course I have a list of suggestions in my head, but I'd prefer to… let you loose first and see what happens. Your mind's bound to go in a certain direction. Or _directions_ ," he amends, although the smile is more teasing than expectant. "I'd like to see what that is."

"But what if I'm missing something or misunderstanding something," Arc asks, "and I end up wasting a whole bunch of time?"

"I don't necessarily think giving someone like you access to the Archives could ever be a waste of time," Alus says, loftily, "and I am the king, you know."

"Royal expectations," Arc murmurs, but he's too distracted by the rows of shelves to be properly offended.

Alus points out, "I'd much rather have a clever and sensible suggestion than a fast one, Arc," and Arc has to nod in agreement at that.

"Well," he says, his fingers twitching for a pen, "I guess I shall – I guess you can leave me to it, then."

Alus' mouth twitches at that turn of phrase, something like a frown, and his hand turns Arc back around to look him in the face: Arc has realized that somehow even Alus' touch can be commanding; never _demanding,_ but authoritative, the confident gestures of a king. "Arc," Alus says carefully, his gaze sharp and intense. "You are welcome to do – to do whatever you wish here, in Saronia. If you prefer to spend your days in the Archives, I offer them gladly. But do not – think that I present these merely as a way to keep you occupied while I go about my own business. Your company is welcome and invited anywhere you would wish to go, especially with – with me, if you want." The frown deepens. "I am not trying to get rid of you. You need not spend all your hours here and alone. I – I still want to spend time with you."

Arc isn't really sure how to reply. Alus has this habit of dropping these moments, these honest and heartfelt notions, almost _declarations_ , into their everyday conversations, as easy as he breathes; Arc's never sure whether to treat them as mere casual honesty, or like precious intimate things, like letters with his name in spiraled curves on the front. It takes him aback a little, the easy way Alus can lay out all his intentions that way, although it isn't in a bad way at all: Arc wishes he could do that, wishes he had a king's confidence, wishes he had the same things to offer and the same simple grace to offer them with.

Instead he places his hand over Alus' and clasps it, squeezes. "Alus," he says gently. "Come and get me for dinner?"

Alus nods, and his entire face lightens somewhat. "Very well, then. Enjoy yourself."

The Saronian Castle Archives are kept by a team of three librarians, all of whom seem charmed to meet Arc and none of whom seem overly inclined to follow him around – for which Arc is profoundly grateful. The head archivist, a tall woman with silver hair and a stern look to her mouth, tells him to ask if there is anything he cannot find, but otherwise seems perfectly happy to leave him alone and unattended. Their trust and respect surprises Arc; the librarian at Ur has known him since he was a child and also knows he is friends with _Luneth_ (who once thought it would be a funny prank to rearrange an entire shelf of encyclopedias in color order and also doesn't know the meaning of the words _quiet_ and _get out_ ) and therefore always keeps one eye on Arc at all times even though he's never done anything wrong. It's kind of nice to be away from that baggage, here in Saronia.

But he does not dwell on it for long, because there are rows and _rows_ of _books and records_ here, and he's quickly distracted by the sheer number of topics he didn't even know he didn't know about.

\- - -

_Dear Arc,_

_You seriously have the worst taste in adventures of all time but since that leaves more fun adventuring for me (and less boring reading books in a stuffy old castle! Seriously? Arc sometimes I do not understand you at all), I am excited for you and promise not to burn down Ur while you are gone. Much. But only if you promise to do one interesting thing while you are there and write me about it. Otherwise I make no promises about these fireworks Refia brought._

_Luneth_

\- - -

Arc starts carefully, with topics he already somewhat understands, in areas of interest to Saronia: the fundamentals of math and engineering, statics and dynamics, material properties, the basics of architecture. He still isn't sure what he is supposed to offer, but everything is interesting, and he's always secretly dreamed about going to a university and being able to selfishly study anything he wanted. Ur's library only had one textbook on thermodynamics – he isn't even really sure where and how Refia learnt to build her airships, although _spectacular trial and error_ is his best guess; Refia sees the laws of physics as a personal challenge – and he finds the archive scribe is willing to supply him with all the paper and ink he might like, to work through the equations on his own.

But on his third day in the library he gets completely and utterly distracted from all of that, because he finds the section of the history archives devoted to the Dark Warriors and their travels one thousand years ago.

Arc reverently takes the oldest and most worn of the books and carries it over to a nearby table. It's a compilation of records from that era, or so it says on the cover; he runs his fingers over the archaic detailing and wonders.

He remembers the Dark Warriors appearing out of nowhere, in the World of Darkness; he remembers the pull of it, the tug of the Dark Crystals – so different than the siren-song of the Crystals they'd followed up to that point; different and yet the same, a counterpoint to the rhythm of their own – and the words of each Warrior, knowledge and confidence and know-how handed from Dark to Light, the cycle continuing. He knows that a bit of their life-force, some small piece of the Dark Warriors, beats in his chest; as in Luneth's, and Ingus' and Refia's.

It's here Alus finds him, long after the sun has set; the archivists have lit the lamps around him, and Arc doesn't even remember.

"We've both missed dinner, then," Alus says cheerfully, and Arc startles in surprise; "what in the world could be so engrossing," his friend asks, but then he sees the manuscripts strewn across the table. Alus' face softens, sympathy  and understanding somehow without pity, and he simply says, "Oh. Yes."

Arc says nothing, his thoughts lost in a thousand-years past; he just looks up at Alus. A faint look of distress crosses Alus' face, and he comes to sit next to Arc; his brow creases in concern, and his fingers are brushing Arc's arm and palm and cheek in worry, as if he's making sure Arc is still there before him. Arc looks back to the book, wanting to say something, and Alus finally just takes Arc's hand in both of his, and sits, and waits. It's Alus' patience and support that finally lets the words come together in his head.

"There's so much we don't know," Arc says softly, as Alus' thumbs stroke the back of his hand: "so much we _didn't_ know, there was none of this history anywhere on the Floating Continent, and we didn't – did you know they were _there?_ At the end?" He swallows, and Alus says nothing, just continues to hold his hand and run his thumbs soothingly along Arc's skin. "I probably mentioned that, right, in the notes I wrote about it. But they – they'd been with those crystals for _a thousand years_ , they were trapped but they were also – waiting, waiting for _us,_ to give us the powers of their crystals too." He brings his free hand up and presses it against his chest, over his heart, where a piece of the soul of a Dark Warrior hums to him.

"We couldn't have done it without them," he continues, the words bubbling up out of him in a rush, "without them and without _you_ , all of you guys who came to break the mirror, but the Cloud of Darkness _killed us_ and without Doga and Unei and the Dark Warriors _sacrificing themselves_ – that's what they did, that's how they set that tiny piece of world back into a balance where we could actually fight the Cloud of Darkness and have any kind of chance – us," he says, aware that he's rambling, " _us,_ Alus, all the crystals and the warriors and that power waited around for a thousand years so that they could give it to _us._ To – to Luneth, who still thinks it's funny to _make burping noises,_ and Refia who can't stand still for more than four seconds, and Ingus – well, Ingus probably at least deserved it, but _me,"_ and Arc isn't really sure what he's saying now, "me, who could barely tell one end of a sword from the other and didn't like fighting or loud noises or anything that wasn't books and _quiet._ "

Alus holds Arc's hand tightly between his own. There's a long moment of silence while Arc stares down at the table in front of him without seeing it, and as much as he wants to swallow back his outburst and pretend it never happened he actually feels better having the words out there: at least to Alus, who he trusts more than anyone he has ever had in his entire life.

Eventually Alus shifts, and his hand comes up to cup Arc's cheek and turn his face towards him; his thumb runs once over Arc's brow, the motion surprisingly soothing. "You still speak of yourself as if you have no idea what you are," he says, softly. "Maybe you don't know what you are, to the rest of this world. But you're a Light Warrior – all of you are – not because of what happened a thousand years ago, or because the crystals speak to you, but because of what you _did_ with it. If the crystals could have magically granted a victory over the Darkness, don't you think they would have done so? You four earned every piece of what was given to you, and you deserved all the help that was granted to you – because you _fought_ for it, for this world, for all of us. There are no easy victories, dear Arc, but the things that you four won, _you won,_ with your own hands and hearts and heads."

"I don't feel like a Light Warrior," Arc confesses, and he leans his cheek into the comfort of Alus' palm. "I _don't._ I feel like – like a kid playing dress-up. Like an idiot who stumbled into something, you know? We didn't deserve – I didn't deserve this kind of thing. I didn't know; I didn't do anything. I followed Luneth because I always follow Luneth. What kind of Light Warrior does that make me?"

Alus waits a moment, his thumb caressing Arc's cheek; his eyes roam Arc's face for a long instant before he says, "When my father died," and Arc makes some kind of abortive movement and tries to sit up, because Alus shouldn't have to dredge through these old painful memories because he's having some kind of melodramatic fit – but Alus seriously presses his thumb to Arc's lips to shut him up and despite everything it makes Arc giggle, wildly, one bright burst of laughter, and Alus' mouth relaxes into a smile for a moment.

"When my father died," he continues, sobering instantly, "there are many ways it could have gone for Saronia. A ten-year-old prince who hides in corners makes no easy king to follow. After Gilgameth the nobles were restless, the villagers concerned, the chancellors suspicious. The kingdom's civil war had been broken for a single night: all the tools were there, for civil war continued, for anyone to make a bid for the throne. Saronia could have torn herself apart, easily; she was there for the taking. Do you know why that did not happen?"

"Because you're a good king and the people around you aren't idiots," Arc says promptly, around Alus' thumb.

"Because of – _you_ ," Alus says, and he drops his hand from Arc's face to awkwardly clutch his fingers about his knees in his lap, his gaze falling down to his hands. It's one of the only few awkward gestures Arc has seen from him, and he can't help but pay more attention, because Alus is so naturally beautiful that it's worrisome when he stumbles. "Because – because of you, the four Light Warriors, yes, but because of _you,_ specifically. A Light Warrior who wasn't _just_ a sword, or a shield, or a spellcaster: a Light Warrior who took an interest, who listened and learned, who was intelligent and sympathetic and gave that young prince unflinching support. Not with weapons, either; with words, and with will."

His eyes flick up to Arc's face, and then back down to his hands. "I owe the entirety of my first year on the throne to you, and Saronia's lasting peace with it," Alus tells his lap. "After a year of proving myself I'll at least take some credit for – not being an idiot – but that first year would have ended quite differently for the entire nation had you not been who you are and done what you did. Because you supported me, the entire realm did, and they rallied behind me _because_ you stood there first – and I had confidence in myself to stay there because I… knew _you_ thought I should be." His hands clench into fists. "And that's something you did yourself, not the crystals. You had no reason to, but you did."

"I," Arc begins, and then, fiercely, "I had _every_ reason to, you were a brilliant kid even back then, who cares if you're a little quiet and shy, that doesn't mean you can't and won't do amazing things-"

"Then the same applies for you, doesn't it?" Alus asks him, and his eyes are quietly blazing. "You like books and you don't like fighting, and you follow your friends, and in your own quiet way you make people see things in others – in themselves – that they don't know they have. You _have_ done amazing things, and you'll do more. And that's why you're a Light Warrior. Is it the _Warrior_ part that confuses you? Because there are plenty of ways to judge worth – to do battle for good – that have nothing to do with a sword."

Arc stares at Alus in some kind of disbelief and when he finally finds his voice what he says is, "Stop saying things that are so difficult to argue with."

Alus bursts out laughing: loud and bright and unfettered, and his face looks suddenly young with it, and Arc is struck again at how lucky he is to have this friend. He sighs, and is surprised when it turns into a laugh halfway – and then Arc laughs along, too, and it feels good to laugh at himself; and something that had been tied up and knotted and tight inside him loosens with relief.

"Arc," Alus says, when he has regained his breath. His hand comes up to cup Arc's face, and he leans forward, and presses his lips to Arc's forehead for one long soft moment, just one breath, and then pulls away almost hastily; the smile he gives Arc is big, and slightly foolish, and Arc's heart twists with gratitude. "Come, I came to get you to bring you to dinner – history has waited a thousand years, my friend, it can wait until we've eaten."

"I'm starving," Arc says, with surprise, because he's absolutely famished and just noticing it now; and Alus laughs at him again and gives him a hand up, saying, "The Archives will do that."

\- - -

_Hi Arc!_

_I hope you and Alus are having some actual fun in Saronia (Luneth said something about boring books and I am supposed to make fun of you and give you hell for being boring, but that's just Luneth – I am back in Ur by the way) because I won't be back for another few weeks. Luneth and I are going mythril mining, I guess there's some gigantic snake that took over the caves anyway so we are going to go kill it and then mine a whole bunch of mythril because I learned something in Falgabard I want to try and I'm making Luneth help me this time because you're not here to talk sense into him. Ha! Have fun and I'll come by in a few weeks to visit you and Al (please call him Al for me, at least once, he can't get mad at you and I think it's adorable)_

_Love,_

_Refia_

\- - -

The days have fallen into a pattern that's so easy and enjoyable it takes Arc a while to notice how regular it has become. He has breakfast with Alus each morning, and they'll talk about the day, and sometimes Arc will stay and follow Alus to meetings or conferences and sometimes he'll head right to the Archives; they usually have midmeal separately, but every evening Alus comes to pull him from whatever corner of the Archives he's buried himself in and they have dinner together: sometimes it's a court affair, or a meal in the hall with the chancellors, and sometimes it's a private meal in Alus' quarters. It's effortless, natural; the people of Saronia have made a place where he fits (although he remembers Alus' words and wonders they all treat him with such kind respect simply because he's the Light Warrior who helped their King and country), and Arc's surprised to find he's happier than he has been in a while, because he hadn't realized how unsettled he felt in Ur until now, when those restless pieces have fallen into place.

For the past few nights they've been retreating to Arc's guest suite for discussion: Alus talks of the days' news and results, and Arc passes on things that he has learned in the Archives, and sometimes they'll spread out books and notes across the long low table and debate principles like they did in their letters – the day the head librarian told Arc that the Archives were in fact closing for the evening but that he was welcome to check out his book to take back to his room was _unreal_ – and sometimes they will just sit in quiet, each reading their own work and sipping the tea the courtier has been bringing to Arc's suite ever since she figured out _her liege_ spends his evenings there.

This is one of the quiet nights; Arc has brought back one of the histories of the Dark Warrior Era, and he's been engrossed in it for two evenings straight, and it takes him the better part of an hour to look up from his book and realize Alus has fallen asleep on the other end of the couch. He’s sideways on the couch, facing Arc: his back is to the armrest, his feet tucked up beneath him on the couch, his body leaned up against the tall back cushion. The book in his hand – Arc doesn't know what he was reading – has fallen to the floor. His face is soft in sleep, relaxed in a way Arc doesn't often see during the day; the slump of his shoulders carries none of the tension Arc hadn't even realized was normal.

And there's something very delicate about the moment, almost tender: Arc knows every day Alus endures pressures that would make a lesser man break – which is part of why he admires his friend so – but even with everything they share this is a trust he wasn't aware he had earned, for Alus to drift off into sleep in his presence. Being a king is ingrained in Alus – those years alone on the throne forged him bright and strong into the ruler he is – and Arc treasures this like a gift, the kind of thing he would tuck away into his treasure chest at home alongside a stack of envelopes bearing his name wrought in royal calligraphy. He watches his friend sleep and wonders why this is so endearing, that Alus can find comfort and safety with him; Arc doesn't really know what it is he's feeling, but he knows something about this makes him feel – different from happy; content, perhaps; somehow fulfilled.

He turns back to his book, determined to be quiet, and loses track of time until there is a soft knock at his door. To his surprise Alus doesn't wake at all; Arc marks his page, and slips across the room to answer it.

It's the courtier who takes care of his rooms. "I'm very sorry," she begins, and Arc brings a finger to his lips and slips the door open a little bit more so that she can see the sleeping king.

"Oh, good," she whispers, and the relief on her face is easy to see. "I'm sorry, m'lord, but it's part of my job to make sure the king's in his bed – security, you know, make sure he hasn't been kidnapped – and when he wasn't there or in the kitchens or in his study, I started to worry that something had happened."

"Not kidnapped," Arc whispers to her with a conspiratorial grin, "just tired."

"I'm so sorry to bother you so late," she says, and Arc shakes his head and insists he'd rather be bothered and he's sorry for worrying her and making her job difficult. He also thanks her for the tea, which has been spectacular.

When he closes the door Alus stirs on the couch; he yawns and then stretches and midway through stretching he must realize where he is because he makes a surprised sound, a huff of air that's almost a laugh, and his eyes fly open in alarm.

"Hey," Arc says gently, "stop drooling on my couch."

"I think it's _my_ couch," Alus says groggily, as he sits up and puts his feet on the floor. "I'm so sorry. I guess it's – too easy to relax, here."

"Alus," Arc says, and he's aware that he's blushing but he wants to be able to do this too, to tell Alus the things that are on his mind without feeling too silly to say it, "don't be sorry. You're welcome to – to doze off in here if you need to. I don't mind. I'm – I'm honored you can relax with me."

Alus looks up, surprised, but there's a little bit of a smile on his mouth and he looks – oddly pleased, although somewhat tentative too, as if Arc just opened a door and he's cautious about walking through it. "Careful what you offer," is all he says, lightly, as he stands up and stretches again. "You'll find a cot in your living room."

" _Your_ living room," Arc teases.

"Just so," Alus says with sleepy playful satisfaction. "Now I should return to my rooms before Euphenia has a heart attack and I suddenly have a security lockdown to deal with."

"She stopped by looking for you already," Arc tells him. "No emergencies. I told her you were here."

"Ah," Alus says, and the look he gives Arc this time is contemplative. "Well, then. Good night. Don't keep yourself up too late with that book, you promised to help me through the budget meeting tomorrow."

\- - -

_Dear Arc,_

_I hope you realize that since your last letter talked a lot about history books and didn't mention a single cool adventure that you and Alus have been on yet that it will be entirely your fault when Refia and I set off these fireworks outside Castle Sasune to surprise Ingus. I'm telling him it was your idea_

_Luneth_

_PS: I do hope you're having fun even if your kind of fun doesn't make any sense to me_

\- - -

The next week brings a series of disturbances to Saronia: first one of the nobles is caught pilfering from the treasury, and while the evidence against her is solid, the money is already gone; Alus is caught up in a whirlwind of budgetary dilemmas because "of course everything comes due when the pockets are empty," he tells Arc wearily; "Chance is never on our side when it comes to economics." Arc is again heart-shatteringly impressed with Alus, over and over, as he deals with every issue with calm competence; he does fall asleep on Arc's couch a second time, but never once in public does he show any kinds of distress or concern. It's the kind of leadership a kingdom can take heart in, and Arc finds his admiration of king and country firm and growing, even though he isn't even Saronian.

There are three fires in Southwest Saronia, where there is a raging drought, and a breakout of wormpox in Northeast, which further dampens commerce; when news comes that one of the main bridges in Southeast has collapsed, Arc is surprised to find Alus asking him to go.

"There's no one else I can trust or spare right now," Alus tells him; "usually they don't apply to the Castle for something like this, but the Engineering Corps is in Southwest." Arc looks at the shadows in his face and the lines of stress about his eyes, the signs he doesn't need or care to hide around Arc, and rather than making his usual protests about how he doesn't know anything about helping a kingdom, Arc says _yes, of course_.

He's surprised to find the people of Southeast Saronia are relieved to see him rather than some other royal emissary; apparently the news has spread that Arc is staying in Saronia Castle on an extended visit to the King, and many recognize him from their Light Warrior travels. He shakes his head in protest at the few who call him the King's Advisor or Light Warrior, insisting they simply call him Arc (although _Master Arc_ is the best he can get out of some of them, and he kind of likes that title even if he feels undeserving of it). The crumbling bridge is right beneath the Dragon Spire, and Arc can tell in one glance that it isn't worth rebuilding. He tentatively asks for volunteers from the crowd that has assembled and is surprised when a hearty team of men and women step forward, eager to help. They clear out the old rubble, and Arc works with a carpenter who reminds him of Refia and a very old blacksmith to design and shape a new bridge, using everything they can recycle from the ruins of the previous one. One of the elders offers him a spare room, and the carpenter's husband brings him fresh bread and stew, and he finds a moogle to send a quick note back to the castle.

It takes them five days of hard labor, but there's a new bridge in place with much better stability and a more accessible arch for the elderly; it's quite charming, Arc thinks, decorative as well as useful, and he's surprised by a warm rush of satisfaction in his own work. The town turns out to see him go; one of the little girls brings him a bouquet of flowers and then runs away giggling and blushing, and when Arc waves and heads out, the town applauds him.

He tries not to think about it too much as he walks back, but he can't stop dwelling on the sense of contentment he's feeling, this sense of _fitting_ here. He knows all he did was build a bridge, it isn't anything extravagant or world-changing, but he helped Alus: he actually made himself useful, took one small weight off the shoulders of a friend who has offered him everything with minimal return. He realizes he's actually finding value in this work – which makes him wonder what was missing from his life before.

For once it isn't about being a Light Warrior; it isn't about the Crystals – although, Arc thinks, to give them their due, they may have opened the door, making him so well-known here in Saronia. But it wasn't the Crystals that built that bridge; neither was it a Scholar, or a Monk, or a Sage. (The Crystals may have withdrawn their gifts of power, but Arc knows the Light Warriors have not been truly abandoned: he knows that if he – or any of the others – are ever in true danger and reach for a Knight's defense or a Devout's healing or a Magus' fire, the Crystals will answer. It burns in him, in them all, a tiny kept flame in the back of his mind: they no longer have need to wear the Crystal's power daily, but it is not entirely out of reach. This is both a reassuring and foreboding knowledge.)

But it was not a shining Light Warrior who built that bridge. It was just Arc, shy unassuming Arc from Ur, who had no hands-on experience but knew enough about static mechanics that he could translate the theory into words that Wylla and Bruton could understand. And there's something about that which Arc finds satisfying, burning contentedly in his chest; it doesn't make his adventures and travels with Luneth and Refia and Ingus any less, but it makes this small sojourn of peace in Saronia something more.

It's the sense of feeling needed, Arc thinks: but not just being needed; it's more complicated. It's feeling needed _and_ useful, not just knowing there's a space but being able to fill it; it's not just feeling needed, but _wanted_ too, invited. It isn’t that he thinks he’s _Master Arc,_ yet, but it’s the realization – slow and sudden at the same time – that he, someday, wants to _be_ Master Arc: that he wants to continue learning and growing and building things for Alus and discovering new ways to use old parts until he can _be_ Master Arc in truth, useful and valuable and important and needed by Alus and Saronia and other cities in the world, too, once he’s smart enough to do so.  There's some kind of a complicated intersection of all those things, and it's the same space where Alus dwells, where Arc is allowed to be just himself, and yet more – and whatever he is, it is always _enough_.

When Alus looks at him, Arc wonders, that _look_ that looks through all his fears and defenses and down into his very core: is it _Master Arc_ Alus is seeing? Some small, quiet, honest portion of himself thinks, _maybe it is_.

He returns to the castle just at sundown, exhausted and content and more than ready for a fresh bath and a long sleep in a familiar bed. On the way through the halls he is greeted by five different wandering courtiers and chancellors (two of which congratulate him on the success of his mission and one of whom tries to corner him with a budgetary question that he skillfully dodges), but he escapes to his suite eventually. He knows he needs to go report to Alus, but he's stiff and sore and he decides it probably isn't proper to appear before a king as filthy as he is, even if the king is his friend. This decision proves to be the best course of action; Arc emerges from the bath to the smell of food and Alus' familiar presence on his couch.

He can't stop the silly grin that spreads across his face at the sight of Alus, stretched out to full length, his head propped up on one armrest and his feet on the other, with a half-eaten sandwich in one hand and a stack of parchment in the other. He looks less like a king than he has at any other time during Arc's stay save maybe the time he fell asleep; his shoulders are relaxed, his face mildly bemused as he takes a bite of his sandwich and attempts to turn the page one-handed. The lines of his body are long and lanky and comfortable; there's no pretention here, no atmosphere, just a simple young man on a couch. Arc wonders suddenly, seized by the thought, how many other people in the castle have the privilege of seeing Alus like this; he carries the weight of being King so naturally it's almost surprising to realize when he has shed that role.

Arc wants to seize this moment: to collect it and tuck it away into his chest of treasures in-between decorated envelopes. His heart clutches in his chest with something like fondness, but stronger, with a burning edge. He wants to run his fingers along the lines of Alus' face, record the things he's seeing and reading by touch as well: save the entire experience of this strange intersection between king and man and friend, this small moment he's been gifted. Arc thinks he maybe understands why Ingus traced out Sara's words; he maybe understands why Alus himself punctuates his own communications with physical contact. He still can't, though, even though he's at least moderately sure Alus wouldn't mind were he to cross the room and touch his cheek; even though he wants to. His fingers twitch with it; the longing is poignant, and a feeling he's not used to having. The realization conflagrates oddly with his revelation from before, and Arc wonders for one brief second whether _Master Arc_ would cross the room and trace the lines of the day on Alus’ cheekbones.

"Have you been here since I left?" he asks instead.

Alus says, not looking up, "Not the entire time," but Arc can see the smile spreading across his face. "Someone had to keep an eye on your things, though, since you were gone the better part of the week."

"Thank you for guarding my property from Saronian thieves, my liege," Arc intones solemnly. "Now budge up, please, I'm incredibly hungry and the sight of your sandwich is making me faint."

"Stealing my sandwich?" Alus tucks his feet up, making room for Arc on the couch. "So _you're_ the thief I've been watching for this whole time."

"Your sandwich is _yours,_ " Arc tells him, "pickles, _ugh,_ what is _wrong_ with your country. I see that platter you brought and I have _intentions_ towards it." He leans forward and starts piling ham onto bread. He really is famished.

Alus laughs and says, "How in the world could I have missed someone who dislikes pickles," and Arc finally looks over at him in mock surprise and Alus winks, _winks_ at him, and Arc bursts out laughing and throws an olive at his face.

He's suddenly, oddly, reminded of the easy way Alus and Refia and Brinford all bantered with each other when he arrived in Saronia, and how envious he was; he thinks of how easy it has been to slip into these exchanges with Alus: is this what it's like to have this kind of a friend, someone to tease and be silly with? There are so many things he values about this friendship with Alus but this is one of them, the ability to joke around and _play_. He's always been too awkward and shy to carry on with anyone like this – Luneth can get him out of his shell when it's just the two of them, but even then Arc always felt like he was stumbling along in Luneth's shadow. Somehow with Alus it's so simple: between the two of them there aren't any shadows, somehow; there's no space for stumbling. Probably true for both of them, he realizes sadly as he eats his sandwich; it must be hard for Alus to find people he feels this easy around.

"How was it?" Alus asks after Arc finishes half of the sandwich and sets the other half aside for later.

"It was good," Arc says, leaning back against the couch. "Exhausting, but good. But I'm guessing you got some kind of report already because people in the hallways congratulated me before I had even had a bath."

"I have a report," Alus admits as he stretches his legs out across Arc's lap. "But I'd like to hear from you."

Arc looks down at Alus' feet and then up at his friend; Alus just raises an eyebrow, as if daring Arc to do something. "Fine," Arc says, and rests his head back on the couch cushion, closing his eyes. "It went well. We had to tear down the old bridge completely, but we managed to save a lot of it to reuse – I wasn't sure what other resources they'd have available. We designed the new one based on that. Wylla – that's the carpenter in Southeast – said she liked it so much she's going to tear down the bridge by her house. I told her please don't; don't worry. How is the – the rest of the – everything?"

 "Ha," Alus says. "Basically the same as when you left, only we found half of Lady Eselbreth's sum hidden in her summer home, so with slightly more money. What do you know about combustion engines?"

"Please don't send me somewhere else until I can have one night of decent sleep," Arc murmurs, because Alus' legs are warm and the couch is comfortable and he's now clean and full and utterly exhausted. "If I refuse to answer, you can't send me, right?"

"Ungrateful," Alus says fondly, wiggling his feet, and Arc mutters something that hopefully sounds more like a comeback than _missed you too_ and reaches for the other half of his sandwich.

Once he is done eating, Alus removes his feet and sits up. "I – I've brought you something. Well, it's yours; I've brought it back for you." And he holds out the thick bound copy of the draft of the book Arc wrote, the summary of their trials and adventures, the copy he had sent to Alus a year or two ago.

"Oh," Arc says dumbly. He reaches out to take it. It's been very well-kept; the pages are only slightly wrinkled and it shows no real signs of age.

"I'm sorry to have kept it for so long," Alus explains shyly, "but I liked having your words with me. Now that you're here, though, I thought you might want to work on it again."

"How did you," Arc asks, paging through his own notes; it wasn't really that long ago, but it feels like a different person wrote these sentences, told this story. "You sent me a – a copy, right?"

Alus shrugs. "I didn't want to write all over the original. There's an argocopier printing press in the Northwest  Library – I had them make a copy of it so that I could write my notes in by your words, without ruining your first edition."

Arc is simply staring at him; Alus fidgets, and his eyes grow wide, and he says, "Are you mad? I'm so sorry, I should have asked – I tried to write my questions in a letter, but there were so many and I was just rewriting what you said so that I could reference it – I thought having a copy would-"

"You have an argocopier press _here_ and you haven't shown me yet?" Arc blurts out. "Are _you_ mad? You can – I could – all of those pages of equations I wrote by hand – _that's_ all I'm mad about, Alus, I don't care about the _book-_ "

And then they're laughing together, again, because it's _them_ – a little wildly; "Seriously I should be even madder," Arc says, and he whops Alus upside the head with his book – lightly – and laughs harder. "I don't believe you wasted an argocopier press on _my stories._ "

"You really don't?" Alus asks, and there's that look again, the one where it seems like he's looking directly into Arc and seeing exactly who he intends to see, the one where he cuts through Arc's shyness and doubts to look straight into his heart: the one where Arc feels like his innermost self is looking back. He shrugs dumbly under the force of that look.

 "I'm the King," Alus reminds him, gently teasing. "But more importantly," he continues, raising one eyebrow, "that's a story the world should hear. I was honored to be your editor, Arc. I hope we can finish it up and make an actual book from it. I know more than one library that should have a copy of that tale."

Arc looks down at the handwritten pages in his lap – his own scrawl, as careful as he could make it but still imperfect, tracing their footsteps as Light Warriors with careful fingertips. "Only if you'll write the cover page," he finds himself saying. "Something glorious."

"Oh," Alus says, and to Arc's surprise, he flushes pink.

"What?" Arc shakes his head. "Your letters were beautiful. Exquisite. I kept them all; you must have spent ages on them."

"Just – just a boy's fancy," Alus mutters, blushing even brighter.

"You," Arc begins, and he tosses the book and grabs Alus' hands. "You're an idiot, you know? Absolutely hypocritical. You don't get to butter me up and down like I'm bread and then refuse to take even a simple basic compliment, you know?  They were gorgeous, and I loved them. What's wrong with that?"

"You – you build me _bridges_ ," Alus says incredulously, looking down at their clasped hands and shaking his head faintly. "Calligraphy is… ornamental. Decorative, but useless."

"You made me feel _important_ ," Arc says, and that's the confession at the root of everything and now he's blushing too; Alus looks up, surprise writ across his face, but Arc plows on, because maybe he can't do that thing where he looks into Alus and sees straight through to the back of his innermost thoughts, and maybe he doesn't have a courtly turn of phrase or a kingly delivery, but this is _important_ and maybe they just have to build each other up – and maybe that's the way it should be.

"You were the _only_ person in the entire _world_ I had to write me letters, and not only did you write, you made me feel like I was worth your time, because you sent me something with value, something that took time and effort to do. For _me._ Do you even know-" Words fail him; _he_ doesn't even know what Alus was, what Alus is, to a lonely orphan boy from a small town who became a Light Warrior. He glances up.

Alus is looking at him, just looking, and the things on his face are almost painful; there's a hope and a longing mixed with almost fearful, fierce admiration, and a strange sense of wonder besides. Arc is filled again with that strange compulsion to reach out and touch Alus' face, to pull him closer. Instead he clutches at Alus' hands, and swallows, and then says decisively: "You're talented. It's a skill _and_ an art. And if I'm going to write this into an actual book, I want you to do my cover."

Alus shakes his head, as if disbelieving; he exhales, and then murmurs, "Stop being so difficult to argue with."

Arc laughs, then; Alus just shakes his head again and reaches out to touch his face, thumb tracing along his cheekbone, soft and careful. It’s an echo of the motion Arc had wanted to badly to make, and he leans into it, trying to think of what _Master Arc_ would have to say –

 And then Alus asks about the book again, and their travels, and his thumb settles to working small gentle circles on the back of Arc’s hand, and Arc lets him change the subject and just hopes that Alus understands how special he really is.

\- - -

_Arc you should be really jealous because you missed an amazing fireworks display!!!! However I won't be coming to get you from Saronia any time soon because Ingus and Sara stole the Shiva, I am pretty sure he and Sara are on my ship and getting it all contaminated with their kissing, and I don't know where Luneth went. I think Ingus might have kidnapped him, his sense of humor is kind of weird, but you know how much Sara likes ~adventures~ so I bet they are flying around with Luneth in a trunk or something. Look, I'm sure you'll be fine with Alus, but if you see either Luneth or Ingus please tell them that I want my girl back!!!! And tell him that he's a jerk, it will be better coming from you. Either one. Both. Anyway have fun!!!! and I'll see you soon! As soon as I find my baby and beat the daylight out of whoever thought this was funny!!!_

_Love,_

_Refia_

\- - -

The next morning Arc sleeps through breakfast. He wakes midmorning surprised to have been left to sleep so long – he hasn't had Alus at breakfast for days now – but grateful for the extra sleep; his body feels like it's been _hit_ with a bridge. There is a meal waiting under a cloth for him on his table; Arc eats, and then wanders down to the Archives.

He finds himself standing before the shelves with the records of the Dark Warriors. He looks them over, contemplatively running his fingers along them, tracing the words like he used to trace Alus' letters: the spine of the text that claims to be a translation of actual letters the Dark Warriors sent; the curve of the rolled-up map tracing their steps; the simple binding of the compilation of historian research, published just a few years ago. Arc traces out the pieces of that history with his fingertips, and feels the shadow of a Dark Warrior's soul flare within him, faintly pulsing with every breath.

And then he turns away. It isn't that he doesn't need to know, doesn't want to know – eventually – it's just that, right now, Arc is finally okay with taking the fated, epic, larger-than-life, century-spanning, Crystal-blessed part of himself and …gently closing it, setting it on a shelf, filing it away to be looked at later. He'll never _not_ be a Light Warrior – he'll always be bound to Luneth, and Ingus, and Refia, his brothers- and sisters-in-arms – but he's also allowed to find out what it's like to be _Arc_. Not that there is a "just Arc" anymore – the Crystals will always be a part of him; he'll always carry that adventure ingrained into who he is – but it's one chapter in the rest of his story, and he finally feels like he's ready to see the next one. Arc has found something that he has to offer Alus, Saronia, everyone else, and it's something that's _his_ ; he's been a Light Warrior, faced the Darkness, carried crystal-power and a Dark Warrior's soul – and he's built a bridge, solved equations, argued physics and made his dearest friend the king laugh, and they're all worthy parts of who he is. Somewhere within him, Master Arc is waiting to be revealed: formed of everything he has experienced, but also _more_.  And that's enough, for now.

Instead he spends the day reading about architecture. Arc knows that no matter the number of books, he couldn't have built that bridge without help; and he finds that interesting, the way theoretical knowledge and real-life experience intersect.  Alus doesn't come to find him for dinner, either, but Arc isn't concerned; he takes home two books on architectural design and a manual on mechanical engineering, takes a bath, and promptly falls asleep over them on his couch.

Something brushes against his face and wakes him; the room is dark, some of the lanterns must have gone out, and Arc groggily tries to sit up – "Hey, hush," says a familiar voice, "it's me," and Alus is standing over him with a blanket in his hands, looking concerned. Alus looks like his day has been long – lines of exhaustion drawn on his face, his hair tousled in what was probably frustration – but he throws the blanket over his shoulder and extends a hand to Arc. "Come now, you fell asleep on the couch. I was just going to get you a blanket, but if you're awake, I think the bed's more suited to you."

Arc looks up at him, trying to blink the sleepy confusion from his face: five days of hard work in a stranger's cot, coming home yesterday, falling asleep on the couch doing static balances, and "Ugh," he says, letting Alus pull him upright. "My _everything_ is stiff."

"That's why we should use beds and not couches," Alus says, and he tucks the blanket around Arc's shoulders and starts to walk him to bed. Arc is strangely aware of Alus' palm in the small of his back, guiding him, touching for comfort the way Alus does. He doesn't realize he's leaning into it, doesn't realize he's stopped until Alus bumps into him; Arc breathes in Alus' warmth and they both just stand there for a minute, frozen, tentative and quiet and so close Arc can _feel_ as Alus breathes, in and out, can feel the exhale rather than hear it.

Arc is suddenly almost painfully aware of how long it's been since he's been this _close_ to anyone – Alus is a more physical friend, yes, taking reaffirmation from Arc with simple tender touches, but it reminds him sharply of their travels five years ago: learning to sleep back-to-back with Ingus, Luneth curled up to his side and Refia starting the night out somewhere else but always ending up draped over the three of them like the world's most hyperactive blanket. It had been a source of comfort for them all when they felt alone, the four of them against a thing that wanted to swallow the rest of the world: out in the wilderness, in the shadowed corner of a bone-filled cave, the spare room of an abandoned mansion. There was no shyness or strangeness between them, no walls, and Arc hasn't realized until _right now_ what it was, what it meant, that feeling of trust and safety and the reassurance of simple touch.

And it's – maybe this is why Alus speaks through touch so much, because it's easier to do than to say: Arc turns and steps into it fully, tucking his face into the hollow along Alus' neck and shoulder, and one hand's caught between them clutching the blanket but the other comes around to hold Alus around the waist, his palm flat against the middle of Alus' back. Alus sighs and Arc can feel the tension go out of his body – he hadn't realize Alus had stiffened, frozen, but then Alus sinks right into it: wraps both arms around him, tucks his head in right next to Arc's, and sighs again. The exhale is soft into his hair. Alus is clutching him as if he's afraid to let go.

There's something completely different about this, too – the way Alus is always different. Arc feels like he fits here, too, that this hug is specifically for him: for Arc, the shy cowardly orphan from Ur; the quiet Light Warrior who likes books and doesn't like fighting; the shy slightly-less-cowardly orphan who left Ur in search of the most boring adventure of all time and found something he didn't know he was looking for. It's the same way that Alus can look at him and see through everything else to _Arc_ – to _Master Arc –_ to what Arc _wants_ to be rather than what he is: to the core of what's underneath. This embrace encompasses everything he is, and everything he's gone through, and still reaches him. That's what Alus _does_. That’s how his King sees things.

It doesn't escape Arc's mind either that Alus is King, that he's clutching the back of the king's shirt, that the king's cheek is resting against his hair: but he's surprised to find that he doesn't really care. He's seen Alus over the last couple weeks, and he knows Alus doesn't get as close to anyone as he does to Arc, doesn't reach out for anyone else; he's honored to be the one there, just as he wants to be the one who watches Alus sleep sloppily on the couch, who gets to throw olives and build him bridges and tell him when he's wrong. That's what they are to each other. It's giving as well as taking; it's wanting _and_ needing, it's being useful to one another. He wants to be Alus’… well, he wants to be _Alus’s._

Arc takes a deep breath, because he feels like he's just realized something grand but he isn't sure what it is: something about Kings and Masters, about shy boys and friendships; about wanting and needing Alus more than anything else in the world. He lifts his head from Alus' shoulder, and drops his arm, stepping back just slightly; Alus releases him, though his hands come to Arc's shoulders, biceps, forearms, hands, as if confirming Arc has not changed. His face is concerned, worry creasing his brow. Arc considers suddenly that maybe he should be embarrassed. "I'm so sorry," he begins; he can feel his smile is bashful. "I just – needed…"

"Don't ever be sorry, not with me, _please_ ," Alus bursts out, and his voice is _ragged_ , the depth and longing in it drawing Arc's eyes to his face: "You ask me for so little," Alus says, and his hand cups Arc's cheek; their faces are inches away, and he can't look away from the desperation in Alus' gaze. "I would give – anything you ever need," Alus continues, shaking his head slightly, and the intensity in his eyes is not going away. "Ever. Always, Arc."

"Alus," Arc says, and, "I know," and "me too," and he doesn't know what he's talking about, except that he _does_ , because this is he and Alus and this is what they are, each other's everything. His hand comes up, his thumb tracing Alus' cheek, just like he'd wanted to do the night before: this is easier, now, this close, and his breath catches at the way Alus' eyes flutter closed then open at his touch.

 And he laughs, just a little bit, because it's silly for them to have to put any words into this – and his laughter transforms Alus' face, concerned desperation melting away, throwing caution to the wind, and Arc has only one second to enjoy the absolute joy in the smile that spreads across his face before Alus steps forward, tilts Arc's face, and kisses him.

It's _transformative._ In one short sharp moment everything he knows about Alus crystallizes and Arc can see the pattern now, see how this fits, but there's absolutely no time to analyze it, no time to even look; his hands clutch at Alus' shirt as if to draw him even closer, and this is nothing but a clumsy mess, probably the actual worst first kiss of all time – maybe they can research it later – but they have the worst adventures together too and maybe having the worst of everything _together_ really means it's the best of something, too. It doesn't matter that neither one of them has any idea what to do because they still know what they're doing, because it's them, and that's what they are to each other.

They pull apart and look at each other like absolute idiots; Alus is still smiling, Arc notes, but there's concern in his eyes, concern and care and a regard so deep he could drown in it. Arc thinks he's just grinning stupidly; he tries to pull a straight face but fails utterly.

"I," Alus begins, but Arc reaches up and presses his thumb to Alus' lips – Alus laughs, startled – and says, softly:

"Don't be sorry with me, either."

\- - -

_Hello Arc,_

_Of course I know that you were not responsible for the fireworks display (and subsequent fire). Not only do I know that pranks are not exactly your style, but Sara and Alus have been conversing (as rulers do) so I am well aware that you are currently in Saronia making good use of yourself, not stuffed into Luneth's knapsack like he so claimed. (Sara is quite cross that Alus got to you first, I must add – I don't suppose we could convince you to become a traveling advisor? Probably not. Sasune's library isn't nearly as large and we don't have Alus besides.)_

_I do appreciate hearing from you, even if the main reason for your missive was unnecessary. You and Alus should come visit. Sara and I miss you dearly, and I think Luneth would appreciate being bailed out of the dungeon._

_Sincerely,_

_Ingus_

\- - -

In the end it changes absolutely nothing, which changes everything.

They still meet for breakfasts in the mornings, and Arc still follows Alus to conferences and meetings occasionally and doesn't other days; their intellectual arguments still make Alus willingly late to every budget meeting he can possibly manage – Arc accuses him of playing devil's-advocate simply to get out of being on time, and Alus huffs and brings up R. Harvey again because he still seems to think distraction tactics work – and Arc still spends his afternoons in the archives and his evenings on his couch with tea and a wayward King taking up a large portion of his couch. It's exactly the same – and yet it's different, when Alus presses his hand into Arc's shoulder and smiles, or when he reaches out to brush a thumb across Arc's cheek: it still means the same thing it's always meant, but they both understand it better. Them, yet more: some days Arc thinks he could write an entire treatise on his feelings for and about Alus, although the thought makes him blush horribly, and Alus _always_ asks what he’s thinking about when he does.

A few days later Alus sends him to Northwest Saronia to look into a land dispute and Arc accidentally spends the better part of a week in the Northwest Library, which _is_ even larger than the Castle's Archives, and comes back with a _cart_ full of books he's taken out on loan. Alus forgives him once he sees the book of terrible poetry Arc has brought back, and they're up almost all the night reading it to each other and laughing so hard they both end up on the floor, Arc doing voices with his head resting on Alus' stomach, book held above their heads.  Alus misses every budget meeting that week. Arc actually starts attending them because he's tired of being pinned by Hargrave, Alus' head financial advisor, asking what the king thinks on this or that as if he and Alus communicate telepathically; he figures that if he goes to the meetings he can at least get answers out of Alus when they meet for dinner. Much to his chagrin, the plan works flawlessly.

There's a strange subtleness between them, now, even when it's just the two of them: Alus falls asleep once with his head in Arc's lap, and Arc finds himself increasingly distracted from his book by idly and gently teasing strands of Alus' hair (when Euphenia comes to check on her king, Arc simply gives her a tired wave, since he can't stand; she blushes when she sees them, but her sweet smile is approving and somehow grateful). Sometimes if they are talking and Alus takes Arc's hand in the way he does when trying to make an emphatic point, Arc will be slow to let it go. There's a thing they're growing here – a thing it turns out they've been growing for all these years, in letters and words and thoughts in their hearts until the two of them have grown so close they just _are_ , and Arc wonders whether it should be strange to find this way that Alus is a part of him, because it isn't at all. It's the way this is.

Alus sets him to researching combustion engines and Arc finally finds out why a few nights later when Alus brings food and a flask of watered wine from a dinner they both missed to his room, and proceeds to tell Arc of the dream he has of connecting the Saronian towns together with transportation, carriages on wheels that travel from Northeast to Southeast and all through the nation, so that people can move from one to the next without needing to hire from the soldier's guild or fear for their lives. "Think of it," Alus says; his eyes are bright and he's smiling, and his cheeks are flushed. "For a handful of coins, a mother or father could do a month's shopping in a day, 'round all four corners of Saronia."

"It's brilliant," Arc says, "and if it works, you could make a treaty with other towns too and build longer ones – paths, like roads, or maybe just some kind of track the carriage could follow. And then people could travel other places, too."

Alus puts down his glass. "Wouldn't that be amazing? I know there are airships, and I still think there are opportunities there, but – not everyone can afford to hire the Lady Refia."

"Not everyone would dare," Arc murmurs.

Alus flashes a smile. "Not that she charges anything that's unreasonable or unfair, but she also just doesn't have the time or desire to take every citizen of the world every place they wish to go. I've always thought there has to be a more accessible way to travel, I've just …never had the time myself to do anything more than dream."

"Well, it's lucky you have someone who can help you with that," Arc teases, as he refills his own glass.

"I'll have to give you some sort of title," Alus declares. "Saronian Dreammaker." Arc makes a face that must look a lot like Luneth's green-bean face, and Alus laughs, and continues, "Resident Genius. Head Research Coordinator. Royal Miracle Worker."

"Bum in the Library," Arc offers, tearing off another piece of bread. "Hobo in Charge of Stealing Royal Food."

"Advisor to the Throne," Alus says, and Arc looks up sharply, because Alus' tone is suddenly serious; his smile has gone somber, and soft, and there's a regard in his eyes that fixes Arc in place. "If you're going to stay and help," Alus continues slowly, almost shyly, "it doesn't need to be – it doesn't mean you have to move here and stay forever, but if you're going to lead such a large project in my kingdom I must insist you have an appropriate title, and a position to match."

"You don't have to," Arc says, honestly; "I don't need to be anything official. I want to stay and help, no matter what. I don't need any kind of….reward, or recognition."

"I know you don't." Alus reaches out and takes his hand, surprisingly tentative. "But I… would like to, if you'll accept. If you really… if you really will stay, and help me do this."

"Of course I'll stay," Arc says promptly. "This is an exciting interesting project, and the food is good, and you're here." His mouth slips upward into a smile at the last, even though he doesn't intend it.

“I will say it again,” Alus says, and his thumb traces light lines on the back of Arc’s hand. “You must know by now how I – how I feel – about all of this,” he adds hastily, gesturing wildly with his free hand. “You are welcome to stay in Saronia as long as you wish, just as you are equally welcome to leave as you wish – and return as you wish – I do not want you to feel-“

“Alus,” Arc says gently, because his friend is making this much more complicated than it needs to be. “I’m _happy_ here, okay?  I'll stay."

Alus' careful smile cracks into something more genuine and less controlled, the corner of his mouth tweaking upwards; his eyes are bright with fondness, and the look on his face is everything Arc himself is feeling: there's still surprise here, surprise at having found something like this – at having built it so easily – and a mutual regard, appreciation and respect and admiration all tied up in a knot that's much too tight and intertwined, a friendship that's both more and exactly what it is. Arc sets his glass down, and reaches for Alus' face – Alus leans forward willingly, and their lips touch. This kiss is different: slower, more deliberate, both of them shy and clumsy and so very aware of what they're doing – Arc's skin feels like it's tingling, his heart rung like a bell, and Alus takes his hands and cups Arc's face and shifts, somewhat, and Arc sighs into it and tries to pull Alus closer, as close as he can get.

There's a bit more fumbling – a lot more fumbling – there’s something endearing about the way they are both so clumsy and yet so obviously eager, something about the way two incredibly timid, introverted boys can feel so comfortable at a thing they so obviously know nothing about – Arc mentally adds a section in the treatise he will _never_ write about how they can give each other confidence, although he is distracted from his musings by Alus’ tongue; there is something so simple in this, the way something that could be intimidating is made small – though not insignificant, heavens no, not the way his fingers trail down Alus’ arms, not the way Alus gasps – by the fact that they’re just _together._

And then something catches and it's as if all of a sudden they've figured it out because they've suddenly ignited; their lips are moving against each other but it's words, it's sentences, poetry and electricity. Alus' mouth is at his brow, his temple, his mouth, his collarbone, and Arc can barely breathe, can barely believe that this is him, he and Alus, two shy and quiet simple men now on fire and ascending: his hands clutched in Alus' shirt, running through his hair, pulling him back down to be kissed, with force and meaning if not finesse. He swallows the noise Alus makes, one he doesn't even have words to describe; then kisses him harder just to hear it again, because Alus should make that noise basically all the time, _every day_. Alus' hands are still cradling his face, fingers tangled in Arc's hair; somehow Alus is straddling him on the couch, now, Arc's demanding hands having somehow pulled him closer, and that's entirely okay.

They pause, both of them breathing rather heavily; Alus' hands run through Arc's hair and back again, slowly, idly, and Arc can't tell whether he's smoothing it down or messing it up and doesn't much care. Alus' pale hair is mussed; his lips are red, somewhat swollen, and there's a flush riding his cheekbones that Arc wants to trace with his thumbs – and does, slowly, tentatively, because he can, and the tender look Alus gives him is like a dozen letters with his name decorated in ink and lit up with lights besides.

“So you’ll stay,” Alus says, and in his breathy words are a thousand meanings, each more dear than the next. “You must know how I – how I feel about you staying.”

Arc smiles, and raises his eyebrows, and asks, “Is your Advisor – um. Allowed to do this?”

Alus laughs, one bright joyful burst, and tells Arc fondly: “I’ve never truly had one. I think maybe we are allowed to make our own rules in this case. I am the king, you know.”

“And I’m,” Arc says, tracing over Alus’ cheekbones again, “I’m a Light Warrior. No one’s going to argue with that.”

“No one with brains, anyway,” Alus agrees, and leans down to kiss him again.


End file.
